Hesitation
by BloomxPerish
Summary: Rikku feels she and Gippal are the only ones truly enjoying what it means to be young and beautiful. Drunken friendship gets messy and then some. Eventual friends to lovers with intervening angst.
1. Chapter 1

"Hey, Cid's Girl! Drink?"

The question is yelled from the bar as she flops down into her chair, panting and pleasantly exhausted from dancing.

"Don't call me that!" she yells back. She tips her empty champagne flute towards Gippal in answer. He nods.

Glad for the excuse to not immediately return to the dancefloor, Rikku studies the room. Yuna and Tidus, tipsy and apologetic, bowed out of the room an hour ago. The faces she recognises in the room have dwindled since then. Leblanc slouches brazenly over Ormi's shoulder, while Logos faithfully retrieves glasses of water. Nooj and Paine departed shortly after the hosts. As for Baralai; it was well past a Praetor's bedtime. Vidina's bedtime has also been and gone and therefore so were his parents. The only people still on the dancefloor were Buddy and Brother. They dance as though the venue is playing deep Al Bhed electronica, much to the chagrin of the poor chap that New Yevon had offered up as a DJ. They bounce relentlessly up and down to a rhythm that is in no way related to the song currently playing.

Rikku kicks her shoes off into Gippal's path as he returns from the bar.

"Watch it!" he exclaims.

"You watch it!"

He places the bucket and two clean champagne flutes flamboyantly on the table. The opened bottle nestles on a bed of ice.

"Since when do you drink champagne?" she snorts.

"Since you became a big celebrity," he winks at her. She playfully punches his arm.

Boredom. The side effect of the eternal calm and political stability. Boredom grips Spira. The people are preoccupied with them; Yuna, Paine, Rikku, the boys. Hell, even Leblanc isn't safe. With the majority of the group somewhat embroiled in the boring politics of Spira- or ensconced on their little love island- Rikku and Leblanc were accidental celebrities. The latest obsession is their clothing, where they eat, where they party. Rikku is unashamedly having more fun than she's ever had before.

"Don't sit too close; someone might catch us on sphere. There'll be rumours for weeks."

"You love it," Gippal teases. He stands up then, folding a discarded napkin over his arm, and expertly fills her glass. Rikku giggles, giddily drunk.

"Happy engagement Yunie!" Rikku raises her glass. They toast the happy couple.

"Do you not think," Gippal hesitates until drunken valour wins. He shrugs, "They're a little young for this whole," he gestures, "marriage shit?"

Rikku narrows her eyes and sips. Gippal throws up his hands sheepishly.

"Yunie and Tidus…" she starts, mock outrage melting slightly, "They're soulmates, you know?"

"Oh, really?" Gippal rolls his eye at her. Rikku scowls.

"Don't be a dick."

"Seriously, the whole things screams epic tragic love story." He probes. Rikku eyes him quizzically.

She tells him the whole story. They fell in love during Yuna's pilgrimage. A stranger from a dream world; the put-upon green, baby summoner, heir to Braska's legacy. The tragedy of the end; his and her sacrifice for Sin's demise. He had just been gone then. Then, somehow, the Fayth. They gave him back. Yuna has been through enough. Through all of that, for the sake of Spira.

Gippal surveys the bottom of his champagne flute. Points a look at her.

"Okay, fine, a little melodramatic!" she quips. She refills their glasses.

They pass the rest of the evening reminiscing about Brother and Buddy. Hilarious memories easier to access in a tipsy fugue, spurred by the idiots' dance floor antics. One bottle of champagne has become two. Rikku and Gippal join Brother and Buddy on the dancefloor. The jump around as though they are fourteen again. Heels off, spinning around. The hall is empty and the DJ weary.

At midnight, it is clear the night is at an end, at least officially. Buddy supports a hiccupping Brother back to the Celsius. Rikku and Gippal loosely chaperone them; they are maybe marginally less drunk. Gippal moves to leave her there too.

"I live here now, remember?" she reminds him.

"True."

"After party," she whispers," but you'll have to carry me because it's too far in these shoes."

He jokes that she's heavy as she drapes herself over his back. She presses her knee hard into his side in reply; she breathes the word "meanie" in his ear.

The air conditioning as they step through the threshold is an unpleasant chill coming in from the warm summer Lucan air. Her apartment is nothing short of modern. The living space is large, with velvet emerald green sofas. A tall standalone gold lamp shade brackets the space. It backs on to empty space; an introduction to ceiling-to-floor windows opening the view up over the harbour. She has a breakfast bar and lights that hang from the ceiling.

On the counter, discarded tissue paper bears the stark imprint of red lipstick. A bottle of white wine is half-finished.

Lipstick stains on an empty wine glass.

He spies a distant hallway, unformed shapes of discarded clothes littering the floor.

"I found," she hiccups, "the funniest sphere. Oh, help yourself to the wine."

She pads into the darkness of the hall then. He hears her rustling through something, somewhere back there.

He is impressed with the calibre of wine he finds upon opening the refrigerator. The earlier discarded bottle is no longer cold enough to enjoy. He chooses the cheapest looking bottle; they are in no state to appreciate the finer notes of a good taste profile. He snorts at the image of Rikku; swishing wine around her glass; taking a hearty, nasal breath; proclaiming to recognise the finer notes of Gysahl over Pahsana.

She pads back into the room, baggy slouchy green trousers and a white tank top. She thrusts an oversized bathrobe at him. She tuts.

"How long does it take to pour a glass of wine, anyway," she grouses at him, wrestling the bottle from his hand; shoos him away, "Go get comfy,"

This is how he finds himself in Rikku's hellishly messy bathroom. Tuxedo discarded, and looking ridiculous in a fluffy pale grey bathrobe - with white fur trim- and only his boxers underneath. He throws the hood up, and pouts at himself in the mirror.

"Do I look sexy or what?" He declares as he strolls back into the room, swinging the tie of the gown around in a mock attempt at seduction.

She rolls her eyes and beckons him over, arm darting briefly out from under the dark purple throw she is now drowning in. She leans forward, gathering the blanket onto her chest, and scoops the two fresh glasses of white wine up as he sinks into the sofa. She thrusts one earnestly at him.

"Look, look!"

The sphere projector, top of its range. Clearly. A celebrity lifestyle is not one to be sniffed at. A clear image is blazoned on to the wall, a paused image. Immediately he laughs. He can see Cid from, at least, twenty years ago. A thick head of blonde hair covering his dome. He catches her eye then and they are creasing into themselves with laughter. Wine sloshes over the edge of his glass. The sphere. It is nothing important. A youthful Cid, fully thatched, but as puce-faced and belligerent as he is to this day. He's yelling at somebody, somewhere, to do something.

Giggles abating, Rikku suddenly pouts.

"Yunie and the others were so lame! Going to bed that early!"

"They could still be up, for all we know,"

"Ew, pervert," she retorts, "but honestly, we need to teach them how to party."

"We say, in our pyjamas, on your sofa, in the middle of the night,"

"Hey!" she says petulantly. She childishly gulps from her glass. He's laughing again then. She's blushing.

"Do you remember," and he can't quite yet continue for laughing, "When Brother…"

She scowls as he wipes a tear from his eye.

"When Brother. When he accidentally electrocuted you, that time at the beach,"

"That scarred me for life, you know!

"Yeah, yeah, I know but," she lightly smacks him on his arm, "Your hair was all over the place. You were fuming, but it was just hilarious because you were so mad at him."

"Why is that funny?" she demands, corner of her mouth quirking upwards despite herself as he struggles to compose himself.

"Because you looked insane. A four foot nothing, mad, blonde, screeching cloud!" and he clearly can't continue.

"I hate you," she huffs.

She counters then. It's a game now. You laugh, you drink. She regales him with the time he fixed an ancient scrapyard hovercraft to impress one of the girls. The first sand dune it hit, he spiralled out of control.

"You swallowed so much sand on the way down and then vomited it all back up right in front of her!"

And this continues for an hour or so until the topics are probing closer and closer to him leaving for the Crimson Squad. Losing Gippal to the military was the end of all of their childhoods.

At two in the morning, sleepiness is intervening. Rikku switches the console to music. Shows him some of the new sounds she's discovered in her recent months of partying. Gippal is settling deeper into the chasm of the sofa. She darts up, turns off the harsh lights, and flicks her stylish lamp on. She is drifting in and out of sleep then, hand loosely caressing the remote control.

At maybe four in the morning, she awakens mildly startled. Gippal's head rests heavily on her lap. The music is disorientating. She flicks it off. She's tired enough that the soft lamplight isn't bothersome.

They drift, then, into that intoxicatingly unrefreshing drunken slumber.

The sickening artificial light of the lamp is stifled brilliantly by the morning sunlight that streams unfettered through her giant windows. She's awake. Her mouth is dry. She's drooled onto the plush cushion she's slumped onto during the night. Her eyes protest heavily as they open. Her head spins. In the night, she has fallen to her left, head propped on a hefty cushion. She is half-foetal here, and Gippal has remained on his back. He is still out, blissfully asleep, deep purple throw tangled between them inextricably. His head is bracketed between her stomach and thighs. She fumbles for the hand on his stomach. Squeezes.

"Hey, wake up." He groans then, rubbing his face. He stretches. It's feline and vulnerable. The gown is rising up. He seems more naked now, sober, in sunlight. Rikku pushes herself up from the cushions, wary.

"Water?" She offers, pathetically.

He isn't even awake, really. She still, loosely, has his hand. She sees peace and hungover discomfort battle over his features for a minute. He is waking up- gazing up- at her, bleary-eyed. In that split second, before his mind catches up, the moment of eye contact blinds her. Affection swells deep within her abdomen. A small, fragile smile dawns on Gippal's face. He squeezes her hand back.

"Water."

Disentanglement. Rikku struggles initially to extricate herself from the blanket. He hears the rush of the tap then the heavy clunk of a large glass of water on the coffee table. He forces himself upright and gulps water down. He turns to see Rikku downing her own glass.

"It's 11am." She offers

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" He darts awake then. Trousers and shirt back on in haste. Jacket and tie slung over his shoulder. He is stumbling back into his shoes, badly.

"Press conference," he mumbles.

Rikku has settled onto a barstool, cradling a second glass of water in her hands.

He hesitates at the door then, unsure.

"Oh, sorry," she realises. She shuffles over and unlocks it swiftly, swiping the keys from the kitchen counter.

"That's not…" he mutters.

She is ambling back to the bar stool, stretching in the sunlight. He steps towards her, catches her arm, pulls her back round to him.

"See you around,"

He kisses her lightly, briefly, hesitantly on her right temple. Then leaves.


	2. Chapter 2

A fortnight passes before she sees him again. Its 7am on the photoshoot. Rikku's hair is unadorned and relaxed, long blonde tresses cascade in messy waves to the middle of her back. She is wearing a thin soft dressing gown. She is waiting for the make-up artist to arrive and wanders out of the trailer to pass the time. As usual, there is a table of sweet pastry and cake. A bowl of fruit languishes untouched next to sweeter treats. She presses her hand around a lukewarm coffee cup she pours herself. It is cold in the wider space of the hall where they are shooting.

Leblanc stands, one hand on her hip, the other on her chin. Gippal stands there too. They are watching on as the crew assemble the lighting rig.

Almost two years had passed since Rikku had reluctantly found herself at lunch with Leblanc. It was towards the end of the Blitz season, the end of summer. Leblanc had been a prominent Lucan fashion designer before the Eternal Calm. It was the type of profession that had only really existed in Luca before then, as largely untouched by Sin as it had managed to remain. Leblanc had been swept up in the tide of change with the end of Sin, as seemingly all Spirans were. There was love, too. Both had motivated her to pursue sphere hunting. Rikku suspects that this change back to her original profession might, in part, be a reaction to her spurned advances on Nooj.

Leblanc had asked Rikku to model for her comeback range. It simply doesn't do, Leblanc had stressed, for a designer to model her own designs. She had been somewhat flattered until Leblanc laid it out for her. Rikku has the body for this. She's famous enough that Leblanc needs her. It was with trepidation that she had attended the first photo shoot. Yet half a year later she can't deny it was enjoyable.

The Machine Faction had dropped their experimentation on weaponry and had started to pick up large contracts in Luca and Bevelle. For 1000 years machina technology had stagnated, thanks to Yevon. Where Bevelle was still too cautious to welcome an Al Bhed-led revival of their existing machina infrastructure, Luca had embraced it wholeheartedly. With the majority of the Faction's work now taking place in Luca, a second headquarters had emerged.

Recently, most of Gippal's attention had been focused on the renovation of the Blitz stadium. He had also collaborated with Shinra to improve Spira's cameras over the previous three years since the defeat of Vegnagun. The fathers of Spira's modern media, the pair are partly to blame with the public's preoccupation with the lives of the High Summoner's former entourage.

"Hey," Rikku chirpily breaks the deep thought and concentrated silence stretching between Gippal and Leblanc.

"Rikku." he is visibly startled by her sudden appearance. She's pretty sure that the last time she heard him say her name, she was fourteen years old. He says her name as statement; clarification she is actually there.

"Morning." She yawns.

He nonchalantly switches back to enthusing about the new cameras.

"You see here. The interference on this picture is now gone." He says. Rikku really doesn't pay much attention after that. Leblanc beckons the photographer over when he walks through the door; then she kisses Gippal brusquely on the cheek, leaving him mildly flustered.

"Thanks for lending them, love!" she exclaims before tearing past him towards Rikku and hauling her along to the clothing rack.

The next few hours is a blur of undergarments too tight for her to breathe in; fine make up brushes puffing powders on to her face; and the recurrent dizzying flashbulb of the new camera. It's a whirlwind of mild pain and glamour and she begrudgingly loves every second of it. She is vaguely aware of Gippal observing the photo shoot. Hand on his hip, finger quizzically on his chin, his eyes fixate on the camera display. They are both avoiding eye contact. There is a crawl of embarrassment across her skin as one of her oldest friends looks on at her.

At the end of the shoot, she visibly sags out of her tight dress as an assistant unzips its. He catches the relieved smile that breaks like dawn onto her face. She flashes her gaze up to find Gippal smirking at her. She pouts, fake petulance, and rolls her eyes.

* * *

Later at lunch, Rikku's face is still artistically adorned with make-up- picturesque- yet spoiled by the grin she is sporting. Her hair has been swept carelessly, voluptuous curls, into a messy bun atop her head.

"You're good at it," he offers.

"I just channel Yunie at her most – summoner -you know?"

"You mean she was more serious than Gullwing-Yuna?" he asks. They are tittering, catching up, over wine and fresh, fancy Lucan salad. The food is understated and bland in the minimalist bar of the hotel hosting the shoot.

"So, when is opening night? I can't wait to see the new Blitz stadium!"

"Next weekend."

Gippal launches into an ordeal then; mainly revolving around reigning Shinra's distractibility in and somehow translating his genius into tangible progress.

"You know, as soon as he is on to something big, he'll stop and claim that he's just a kid."

They are laughing then, trading similar stories of frustration.

"Honestly, though, this kid is gonna bring Spira into the future."

Lunch passes quickly. Amidst the haze of Luca's afternoon sun and reminiscent conversation, they easily sink a bottle of white wine. Pleasantly, Rikku buzzes as she stands and stretches. They are both making their moves to leave.

"Anyway," she says, "Come dancing with me later!"

He makes a show of being too busy. He can't be out late; he has to be up early tomorrow.

"My entire life is early mornings and late night appearances!" she says pointedly, "Don't make me spend the night alone with Leblanc!"

"… Fine."

She beams then, warmly squeezing his bicep. He's informed that he should meet her at her apartment at 9pm.

Their separate afternoons pass quickly. That tight, quiet buzz of mild mid-afternoon intoxication translates- for Rikku- into a luxurious, too-bubbly bath and –for Gippal- into an unexpected nap.

* * *

"Sorry…" Rikku totters out of her apartment at 9.15pm, hairpins between her lips like arrows in a quiver. She is frantically darting them into the mass of curls she is haphazardly collecting atop her head with one hand. Tendrils of hair tumble down the nape of her neck. It's chaotically elegant.

"What?" she pouts.

"You're late."

His eyes are magnetised to her dress. It is short and ochre, with a deep plunge from her clavicles to below her navel- the descent down the valley between her breasts is framed with sleek sequins that glimmer in the dim light of her entryway. She turns to lock the door. The long tail of the bow of the halter neck bisects her spine.

She's placing her hand on his chest then. And almost instinctively he is reaching for it.

"Keep these safe for me"

She slips the leftover hairpins into the breast pocket of his shirt, pats once and smooths her hand over his chest.

She loops her arm around his. Full steam ahead.

They catch a minihover from the corner of her street to the venue of Leblanc's party. She explains during the brief ride that taxies them, that Leblanc tends to throw a lavish and exclusive party when each shoot concludes. It is usually attended by magazine editors; Luca's news anchors and executives; anyone of mild note, like ex Youth League members. It's implied by how put-upon she acts by the whole affair that a High Summoner's ex-guardian adds an unspoken sheen to the event.

"Sounds exclusive, princess." He says.

A beat, and she lets the childhood nickname slide, internal roll of her eyes.

"You're with me, so don't worry!"

Her eyes rove over him then, appreciative of his crisp white shirt. She reaches out and tugs the lapels of his casual navy blazer briefly taut around his shoulders.

"Just smile," she says with a wink, as the minihover comes to a halt.

There is small huddle of photographers crowding near the entrance, respectfully far enough away not to block their path. There is a sudden clamor when Rikku is spotted. Startled gazelle in a thousand headlights, Rikku collects herself into catwalk poise, with a soft and sassy smile that softens the poker straight composure of her spine. She walks through the threshold of the bar. Easy, breezy, a cover girl. Her usual innocent energy refracts through the prism of celebrity; she is composed, stunning, graceful.

Gippal is momentarily unbalanced. He follows after her, resisting an urge to brush imaginary creases from the front of his shirt. Halfway to the door, he remembers to smile.  
Rikku does that thing again, once assured the camera is nowhere to be seen; she visibly relaxes. A sliver of blonde hair drops languidly down the back of her neck. A stiff host greets them. His eyebrow twitches after Rikku downs the first glass of fizz she picks up.

"Ugh, I get so nervous, you know?" she shrugs, impishly smiling.

"You were lapping it up," he teases.

She hands him a glass assertively; a single raspberry bobs in the fizz as it threatens to spill over the edge. She's looking at him expectantly.

"You're gonna be the death of me." He mutters, as he knocks it back.

They descend down the steps from the bar entrance, a second, fresh glass of sparkling wine each.

The music is a suffocated, slow strain of electronic beats. The genre of music is so unrecognisable to Gippal that he decides it must be cool. The main din of noise in the room is a muffled cacophony of conversation. He spots Leblanc wildly gesturing and entertaining a group of men who are far better dressed than he could ever hope to be. Logos is in another corner. Without even hearing what he is saying, Gippal can read the pretentious drawl from his body language. Ormi is haunting the buffet table. And here and there are people he vaguely recognises. Maroda, of the Youth League; Rikku firmly turns them in the opposite direction.

"Okay," Rikku softly grips the crook of his elbow. She levels her champagne flute into his line of vision, and points with her index finger, "You see her. Over there? That's Shelinda, you know, from the news? Don't spread this about but she's dating her producer. That's him with her. He's obsessed with her."

The eyebrow above his good eye quirks then. Idle gossip, really.

"And?"

"The stadium reopening. You need to get people interested."

A gradual realisation hit him them.

"Did you bring me here to network?"

"Gotta do something until the real party starts," she winks, "I'll introduce you!"

"Gippal! Of the Machine Faction! Oh my," Shelinda gushes as they approach, "Rikku!"

They are hugging then in a slightly alarming display of female affection that is driven by a mutual level of mild inebriation.

"It's only a week now until the new stadium opens."

Shelinda's most loveable trait is her ability to find the joy in all things objectively dry. Gippal can't help but smile. The way Shelinda gestures; he half expects her to pluck a microphone from beneath her skirt. Whether or not this is a natural forte for acting or genuine interest on her part, Gippal finds himself talking at length with solely Shelinda's encouragement about lighting such a large space; the innovative way they've increased stadium capacity; a vague, poorly articulated endorsement of Shinra.

"Oh, we have to cover the opening. Can you score us an exclusive interview?" She implores him. Shelinda's partner- Vinnie - is shaking his hand then. A business card is slotted alongside Rikku's hairpins in to his breast pocket.

He inverts the champagne flute and drains the last sip. He is mildly jolted into sobriety as he notices that Rikku isn't already slipping another glass into his hand.

"She went outside for a cigarette." Shelinda offers, perceptive eyes twinkling over her hands held to her mouth.

In debt by at least two glasses, Gippal purchases a bottle of fizz from the bar. Sceptically, he wanders outside to the smoking area. Rikku _smoking_ is the most ludicrous thing he can think of. In fact, he has borderline traumatic memories of Rikku trying to lecture Cid, of all people, to stop smoking cigars when she was merely eleven years old.

"What-" he asks, deeply amused, "the fuck are you doing?"

She is perched on a low stone wall, knees knocked together. She is hunched onto her elbows, failing miserably to light a single cigarette.

"Nothing!" she scowls at his intrusion. Rikku shiftily grips the cigarette and the lighter and clumsily shoves them behind her back.

"Oh dear," he murmurs as he sidles up to her on the wall, "Give it here."

He's lighting a cigarette for her then. He takes an exaggeratedly deep drag once it's lit. Disposing of that first crust of ash, he moans because it simply has been _that long_ since his last one. Rikku orbits round to him then. She reaches with a shudder for the cigarette. Gippal smirks. He suddenly jolts upwards, comically whisking the cigarette away from her expectant hand. He shrugs his jacket off. There is an interesting fight between gratitude and exasperation on Rikku's face as Gippal sinks the jacket down over her shoulders.

"Can I…"

"Well, princess," he starts innocently, "What would you do if you were me?"

Rikku's eyebrow twitches in annoyance. Another deep hit for Gippal from the cigarette- he smirks as apopleptic rage builds in the creases of her eyes.

"You're infuriating."

"Did you learn that word from _Yunie_?"

She darts to grab the cigarette then, but he is too quick for her, shooting up rapidly and holding it childishly out of her reach. She smacks him softly on his arm.

"I hate you."

He chuckles, taking a deep inhale. She is tipsily defiant, or defiantly tipsy, neither of them can quite tell. Five inches taller than normal due to her heels; her hilarious scowl is at his eye level. He takes the last drag, leaning in. Close. He exhales the second hand smoke- softly, slowly- at her vexed face.

"I hate you, too," he breathes, his smirk oozes into a smile.

There is decided aggression in the way her hands swiftly grip the lapels of his jacket for the second time that evening.

"Loves!" Leblanc bursts through the back door, overflowing into the smoking garden with a posse of young men and women that scatter through the threshold in her wake. Rikku releases him as though he's aflame. Gippal drags his eyes away from hers and throws the cigarette to the floor.

Leblanc wheels around behind them, linking one of their arms each. She marches them into the small sycophantic circle of criminally young, effortlessly fashionable aides that have dogged her every step all night.

Leblanc's dress is svelte. Long sleeved, bardot. Thick. Black. Velvet. There is ample cleavage, her trademark. It hugs her curvaceous figure like a glove to just below her knees. In a departure from her past colourful embroidery, Leblanc has exclusively worn black; a histrionic statement of rejection; fiercely single and proud. She has a following. Calli is there; black palazzo trousers and lacy bralette dusted onto her tanned slim physique; an oversized black blazer is thrown casually over her shoulders.

She sidles up to Rikku on the low wall. Rikku fills the two empty glasses with the fizz Gippal brought out earlier. She hands one to Calli, keeps the other for herself. She thrusts the bottle in Gippal's direction and sticks her tongue out. Brazenly, he gulps straight from the bottle.

"Rikku, are you okay?" Calli huddles closer, sympathy softens the arch of her boldly pencilled eyebrows.

"Sure? Why wouldn't I be?" Rikku says, perplexed.

"You know, Maroda is in there, being a total fuck- uh," she clocks Gippal listening coolly, "- a total player!"

"Oh," Rikku shivers, "Don't worry. We were never serious."

"Still, no one wants to find a random ex at a work party!"

"Honestly, the press made it out to be so much more than it was!" Rikku assures her, a little too brightly. She shifts her weight as she perches on the low wall. Gippal grins despite himself.

"Um," Gippal demands, mock scandal, as he raises the bottle to his lips again, "Who even is this guy?"

"A total loser!" Calli quips.

Gippal isn't even entirely sure why he does it, but he drapes his arm around Rikku's shoulders.

Calli smiles, a sated kitten.

Rikku is incensed. She abruptly changes the subject.

"You know, Yuna would kill me if she knew you came out to a party like this, Calli." Rikku chides.

"Don't tell on me!" she says, "I only come when Leblanc's out, purely networking, I promise!"

Rikku gropes for the bottle, snatches it from Gippal's grip, and tops up their glasses.

"I was told there would be dancing," Gippal offers, at the lull in conversation.

Calli laughs, "It's so early!"

They chat then, the three of them. There is excitement and anticipation about the new Blitz stadium. Calli is ecstatic. It will, after all, be Lady Yuna's first public appearance in a year. Her new fiancé- "the star player of the Besaid Aurochs, you know!"- is playing the inaugural match. Gippal was drawn in then, predictably Blitz-mad.

"You reckon they'll smash them again? The Goers are technically better." Gippal enthuses.

"True, but how great would it be if they won again; just like they did the year of the Calm!"

"Calli!"

Summoned by one of her friends, Calli leaves them. She presses her unfinished glass- her brows again soft, apologetic- into Gippal's hand, as she stands up to leave.

"Hey, Cid's girl…"

"If you ask about dancing one more time," she grumbles.

"No, not that."

Rikku fishes the bottle out of his hand. His arm cradles her shoulder still. She sloppily divides the remainder of the bottle between them.

"Rikku," He whispers, mischievously tender.

"What?" she shivers; her actual name again. He has a familiar expression on his face, poised and waiting for some reaction. Nostalgia washes over her.

"Did you bring me here to make your ex jealous?"

She glowers at him and pushes him lightly.

In their native tongue, "Ugh, you're so full of yourself!"

The nostalgia. He's been an eternal flirt and aggravation since before she could remember.

"Meanie." He feigns hurt with a silly wounded look. Rikku giggles before she can stop herself. Delicately, she cups the bottom of his champagne flute and guides it to his lips.

"Drink up!"

The promise of dancing is fulfilled when they wander back inside. Gippal is relieved to find that the music has picked up its pace- some of it is even vaguely recognisable. The next couple of hours pass in blur of more alcohol, colourful lights and sweat. They amble back to the bar, Rikku stumbles off the stool she attempts to perch on. She steadies herself by gripping his arm, signalling the end of the night. They guide one another to a minihover. Gippal travels back to crash on the couch in his office after ensuring Rikku totters safely through her own front door.

* * *

The sun is radioactive the following day. Wearing dark shades, hair dishevelled, Rikku ambles to the local bakery. A tan dusts her clavicles. Freckles are out to play on her naked face. She wears a delicate white cropped camisole with a lacy trim that brackets her abdomen. Loose khaki jumpsuit pant legs are tucked into brown leather Al Bhed ankle boots. Where usually the jumpsuit zips up to her jugular, the top half is instead tied casually around her waist. She purchases two sets of iced coffee and flaky pastry and wanders towards the Machine Faction office. It's a tall, thin building attached to the renovation works. Industrial and confusing in its grey temporary façade- wooden boards and metal pipes- the ghostly infrastructure of a building yet to be realised looms over her. She feels exposed from her lack of headgear, as workers bustle around her in vibrant yellow helmets.

"State your business."

Rikku's vaguely affronted by the surly doorman. It's 1pm. She lifts her shades.

"I'm here to see Gippal."

Hostility shifts to hospitality as he clocks Rikku's face.

"Ah... Miss- uh- Lady- I mean- um, Ms. Rikku? " he shuffles, "Of course, go right ahead."

She squirms at the accidental flex of her celebrity.

"Thank you." She says breezily, palming off a lazy salute.

The lobby is plain, impermanent. There is a young brunette girl lazily flicking through a magazine at the reception desk. The door sucks softly closed behind her, and Rikku approaches. She is clearly quieter than she intends. Unaware of Rikku's presence, the receptionist stretches backwards on her chair, holding the magazine up to the sunlight spilling in through the lobby's skylight. Rikku coughs lightly to alert the engrossed girl to her presence.

"Um, hi…"

The receptionist drops the magazine with a gasp- it flutters to the ground as dramatically as she exclaims, "Lady Rikku,-"

"- Rikku is fine -" she interjects rapidly.

"- how may I help you?" the widely blue-eyed girl blusters, in polished Al Bhed.

Rikku arches a brow in startled pleasure at that.

"I just," she starts. She is vaguely itchy that maybe he's busier than she realises, "I'm here to see Gippal."

"Of course," the girl stutters. She starts frantically flicking through a large tome like diary on the desk, "Um, well, he's um, he's actually just finished a Commspherence Call with the League and New Yevon."

"Perfect. Where's his office?"

"Um-" the young lady falters, persevering in textbook-fresh Al Bhed. _Sarra_ her name badge reads. Loyalty trickles like treacle into her starstruck gaze. "He's not available for drop-ins. He's meeting a client in fiftee—"

"Your Al Bhed is impeccable," Rikku says brightly, "Better than Lady Yuna's!"

Sarra is silenced as an unbidden, pleasured flush creeps over her freckled cheeks. She frantically scribbles something on a small white card.

"The elevator over there. Take it to the top floor." Sarra slides the card over the smooth desk, "This is the access code."

"Thank you." Rikku purrs in Spiran. She inwardly kicks herself. Leblanc is surely rubbing off on her.

* * *

Gippal misses the first two Commspherence calls he is meant to be on. He is still wearing last night's shirt and has his head buried in his arms when Sarra knocks on his door to drop off his mail. There is a bright yellow adhesive note on the front of the magazine at the bottom of the pile.

_The final product, love!_  
_Leblanc_  
_xoxo_

Before Sarra can retreat, Gippal rasps at her about coffee, or something. She pads out of his office door.

About one hour later both adequately hydrated and caffeinated, he changes into a clean shirt. He raises the shutters on the vast office windows. Sunlight filters like a spotlight onto the magazine Sarra left. His eyes fall to the cover of the magazine.

Long tousled, deliberately messy blonde waves tumble past Rikku's shoulders; one tendril falls over a delicate clavicle and down to the front of the gown. Barely lilac chiffon embraces her breasts, wrapping and ruched tightly around her waist. Almost barely perceptible is a deep purple, glistening, filigree tie that chases the chiffon down to her waist where it knots delicately. The tail of the tie drops below shot and into the unfathomable chiffon of her skirt. Rikku's striking green eyes penetrate the camera lens and, seemingly candid, her head is tilted, teeth bared in a jovial grin. Her slender arms are softly bent in the act of lifting the vast swathes of chiffon of her skirt, slightly pitching her forward.

_Guardian. Spherehunter. Princess._  
_Lady Rikku tells all._

Upon the white back ground, the gradually deepening purple text declares _Siren_'s cover feature. Gippal flips to the centrefold feature.

_Spira's Al Bhed Princess_

More pictures; Rikku, carefree, smiling in that first fanciful, soft, lyrical lilac gown, achingly euphoric like a Yevonite bride. Then a few pages after: satin, slinky, sultry in a little black dress held up by barely there straps. Silver goggles with black lenses are pushed atop her head with her left hand, reigning in her falsely unruly curls- they cascade down and obscure her right shoulder, as she gazes softly over to the left. Silver thigh-high Al Bhed workboots are strapped up to above her knees; four inches of tanned smooth skin are visible beneath a black lace hem. Muted mint green, her eyes in this picture no longer sparkle like emerald. Her smile is interrupted; her mouth set in a subtle downward wistful curve as she gazes in profile at something lost off camera.

He is jolted from concentration from the trilling of the Commsphere. It is rigged to the blue plasma display screen mounted on the wall opposite to his desk. He groans.

"Answer," he grumbles, rubbing his face and mustering a professional smile.

"Answering the conference call," the interface states, and there is a bouncing noise than indicates the call is connecting.

"Hi guys."

Baralai and Nooj broadcast on to his screen. These chats may have started off as friendly catch ups but they have inevitably become bogged down in protocol, strategy, publicity. Sometimes they meet purely to plot how they present a united albeit hollow front to a media that Gippal personally wants nothing to do with. That they need to have a weekly meeting detailing the finer points in a plan to outsmart the newspapers irritates him more than he cares to admit. Gippal bristles upon realising that the other leaders' top aides and secretaries are patched in to the call, meticulously documenting another two hours wasted achieving nothing. There is no space for friendly chats with an entourage looking on.

"So, the Blitz stadium is re-opening next week. Obviously the Machine Faction has led the way with the works, with the generosity of the main benefactor, Rin. The Youth League are most certainly in support of all positive renovation in Spira. I intend to be there in person. Baralai?"

"I will be in attendance also. After all, Bevelle's city planning committee has only yesterday agreed to the renovation of the stadium here."

There is silence then. Gippal starts after a moment, realising his head has drooped on to his hand. He grits his teeth and performs.

"The main bulk of work is now done. The next week will be spent finalising decorations and giving the event planners free reign." He grins, "It's gonna be a great party!"

There is muted, crackly chuckling emitting from his screen. Gippal wonders why this all needs to be written down; maybe he should make Sarra sit in on these sessions. The rest of the meeting passes slowly. It is almost two hours; Gippal doesn't think anyone would have noticed if he'd dipped out for the last hour of the meeting, as absorbed as the virtual attendees were with local skirmishes between their respective fanatics. Distracted, he watches dust motes dance like pyreflies in the sunlight that streams through the gaps in the blinds. The magazine lies discarded, where he had dropped it in his haste to answer the Commspherence call.

The last outfit. The showstopper.

Rikku's waist is suffocated by a gleaming metal corset. Her hands accentuate her own waistline sharply; her shoulders are hunched casually, nonchalantly, over this restrictive bodice of pure gold metal. In place of the usual chiffon of a gown, is a birdcage of polished gold. Her hair cascades- tight coils like uncorked champagne, fizzing over her collarbones. There is a barely there suggestive challenge in her eyes; one corner of her lip is sucked in- a tease. Rikku's vacuumed waist and the metallic gown's regal sillhouette are exquisite. Where her energy is feminine, the detail is machina- the princess of progress.

Gippal gulps from a mug of cold coffee, transfixed on the page. Rikku's burnished exoskeleton burns vibrantly in his mind.

The call is over for less than five minutes, before Rikku fumbles into his office.

"Ugh, hi"

He levels his gaze over the rim of his mug.

"Rikku," he states; it occurs to him that, previously, before the age of sixteen, she was any variant between "Oi", "Princess" or "Cid's girl". Right now, stumbling - oversized overalls and barefaced- none of these titles quite cut it.

"I," she starts, affecting what he can only describe as shy, "I brought breakfast."

Before he can object, Rikku is deeply comfortable in the plush office chair opposite his desk. She pushes soft flaky pastry wrapped in brown paper toward him over the desk.

The iced coffee tastes bland due to half melted ice.

"Thank you for taking me home." She says sweetly, "Did you have a good night?"

He nods, mouth mostly occupied with pastry that is melting in his mouth.

"I did." He mutters.

"Good, me too."

"So," she leads in, "next weekend, the stadium- grand opening- what's the plan?"

"Fuck if I know," he dismisses.

Rikku scowls- really?

"Okay, fine." almost incoherent with is mouth full of pastry. He swallows, "Leblanc is handling it,"

Rikku smirks- fine, then. And then rambling; there will be a red carpet, whether he likes it or not- "You're relaunching the Spiran blitzball scene. People are going to be interested."

"Oh, really?"

He's acting unaffected. She's rolling her eyes.

"Yuna is coming out of hiding to be there. Mainly because Tidus needs to show his face due to Blitz, but still," she explains, "this is a big deal!"

"Planning parties is not my thing," he shrugs, "best leave it to an expert."

"It will be classy, if Leblanc's involved…" Rikku trails off when she catches Gippal's sneaky grin.

"How times have changed," He teases, "You're really turning into a little clone of her you know"

"Hey! That's mean! She's like 40, ew!"

Practically thirteen again in that moment, it feels like nothing has really changed, still trading barbs and insults. Rikku vengefully throws her empty pastry paper at him. It flutters half-heartedly and fails to reach the desk.

"Watch it." He mock scolds, snorting when Rikku stick hers tongue out. She bounces up and swipes his unfinished iced coffee from the desk. She slinks back over to the plush spinning chair opposite his desk, folding herself up impishly, daring him to retrieve it.

"Hey," he moans, "I need that way more than you."

"Well," she sighs, innocently stirring the ice with the straw, "What would you do if you were me?"

A beat. She's avoiding his eyes mischievously, initially. She's solely focused on the whipped cream she's now scooping into her mouth with the tip of the straw. A satisfied, feline smile stretches onto her face when he huffs at her. Her verdant eyes briefly flick up to meet his for one intense second as she sucks the cream with a faint pop into her mouth. She performatively balances the straw between her two fingers as she withdraws it. She closes her eyes- bliss- like she's taking the first drag of a cigarette after years of abstinence.

"Hey!"

"You don't share cigarettes," she muses, "so I don't share coffee anymore."

"I saved your life," he declares dramatically.

"Hmm, fine," she places her finger on her chin, "I suppose you deserve the rest of the coffee…"

Without vacating the chair, she pitches forward, lazily proffering the coffee. He'd have to stretch over the desk to try to swipe it. He hesitates at Rikku's lingering sly smile.

"Come on," she pouts, "Don't make me get up."

He's reaching for it. She darts up from the chair, giggling predictably, lifting it high and out of his reach.

"Whoopsie," she quips.

"Right. That's it."

He is up then, swifter than he should be able to manage in his hungover state. Rikku shrieks, clambering back on to her chair, coffee cup aloft like a torch. She shivers as the condensation on the cup trickles down the inside of her bare arm. The chair swivels dangerously.

"Shit!" her balance wavers with the momentum of her movement.

He's there in an instant, gently steadying her with his hands on her hips, softly guiding her down. She braves a glance through one eye as the warmth of his grip leaves her. He hems her in, gripping each arm of the chair either side of her.

"Watch yourself, princess" he mutters. Soft tilt of his lips far too close for safety.

A bright shy smile in response, "You've saved me. Again."

"Of course," he whispers. Transfixed, she tilts her head up to the magnetic pull of his attention. She is rendered speechless as he leans closer. With heavy effort, he pulls away from her gaze and stares absently over her shoulder. He brings his mouth close to her ear to murmur something to her. She could be underwater because she can barely hear him. Not now she notices that the top few buttons of his clean pressed shirt are hanging open. Faded cologne pervades and she can't tell where it ends and where his scent begins. The perceptible warmth radiating against her skin even though he isn't currently touching her, takes her back to dancing last night. Effortless, easy, touching, twirling, laughing the night away. He's not touching her now. She needs him to touch her now. There is retrospective despair that the alcohol last night had numbed her memory of his touch.

"Couldn't have you spilling _my_ coffee," he whispers, breath skittering over her ear lobe. And this time she shivers due to the agonisingly lazy spread of heat down her spine. Her nerves burn then rapidly flood with reactive chill. Paralytic anticipation fades slowly into outrage as he straightens up and swipes the coffee from her lax grip.

"Hey!" she yells. He's chuckling, standing stubbornly in front of her. It's a repeat of last night as he uses his height to keep the coffee cup effortlessly out of her reach. Crackling with irritation, her brows furrow. "Give it ba-"

They both visibly startle as the loud shrill Commsphere tone blares into the office. Ruthless referee in their petty playfight. Rikku swears. The coffee, now slick with condensation, slips from Gippal's hand in his surprise and crashes down onto Rikku.

"Shit," Rikku is cursing profusely in Al Bhed as the remaining coffee ice hybrid slush spills over her chest. That startles him. Such a string of atrocity had never come out of her mouth before.

"Fuck, sorry," the call tone is still blaring away, "I have to get this."

"Ugh," she grouses, "Do you have a bathroom?"

He gestures vaguely in the right direction. Buttoning up his shirt and composing himself, he answers the call, subtly shushing Rikku.

The Machine Faction had fast grown to potentially be the largest organisation in Spira. Every settlement wanted a piece of modernisation and they initially hadn't been able to contend with the demand. While Gippal remained acting leader, the organisation was now controlled by a board of members, one of whom was Rin who had generously helped fund the operation to start with. Gippal had needed his business skills as the Faction continued to grow far beyond what is was ever intended for. Where Gippal was happy to tinker with machina and develop new technology, he had never dreamed that the progress they made with machina would ever need such mainstream distribution. He was becoming fatigued with managing the ship, the crew and drawing the map. He'd seconded himself to Luca to set up the new headquarters and oversee construction of the new stadium. This was a passion project he'd dreamed up with Tidus, the first time they'd had a conversation and Gippal had discovered he was an untapped fountain of knowledge on erroneously names ancient machina.

The downside was a weekly leadership meeting which he dreaded increasingly as each week passed.  
Rikku ambles back in, making to leave. Gippal darts up from the desk, gently catches her by the arm, well out of shot from the Commsphere.

"What?" she mouths.

He grabs the magazine, scribbling on the yellow sticky note still stuck to its front.

Give me 30 minutes? Wanna see the new stadium?

"Gippal? Are you still there?" an unrecognisable voice chimes from the Commsphere.

The minutes fly by. Gippal feigns enthusiasm for the remainder of the call. He is vaguely aware of Rikku silently listening in, mirth in her smile as she flicks lazily through the magazine. Her posture is feline, tucked up neatly on the chair, coiled with mischief. He feels a puff of heat bleed into his cheeks when he catches Rikku watching. Professional demeanour almost crumbling due to her silent teasing giggles. A crawl of embarrassment¬¬ across his skin as one of his oldest friend looks on at him.

At the end of the call, he visibly drops the tension from his shoulders to rest his head on his hands. She catches the relieved smile that bleeds like sunset on to his face. He flashes his gaze up to find Rikku smirking at him. He scowls, false irritation, and rolls his eyes.

"Come on then."


End file.
